


You're My Brother

by stantheshirehorse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Young John Marston, young ish arthur morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:25:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stantheshirehorse/pseuds/stantheshirehorse
Summary: John and Arthur have known each other for years. They have always been brothers, in one way or another, whether they like it or not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little exploration of the highs and lows of their relationship as they grow up together and how their hate-to love brotherhood evolves.  
> Some of these are entirely imagined, some based on dialogue from the game. Sort of ish designed to be read alongside the narrative plot.  
> always looking for inspiration!

****

"Where the hell is he?"  
"Patience, Arthur."  
"There'll be plenty of time for patience when we're locked in a jail cell waitin' for the noose."  
Hosea gives him a look that would usually be accompanied by a swat to the back of the head from Dutch.  
But that's just the problem. Dutch isn't here.  
Arthur shifts in his seat next to Hosea on the wagon, looks about him uneasily.  
"Calm, down Arthur, you're going to draw attention."  
"I am calm."  
"He'll be here." Hosea says firmly.  
It's another uncomfortable few minutes. Arthur hops down from the wagon to stroke the horses to try to keep his mind from imagining the worst. The cons always feel riskier to him, always make him more nervous than the straight up robberies. Maybe because he isn't as good with words as Dutch or as natural an actor as Hosea. His gun is what he knows. Shooting is easy because your aim just has to be true, and the truth is easier than back stories and fake names.  
"See, told you."  
Arthur follows Hosea's line of sight to see Dutch finally rounding the corner to where they're waiting, money back in one hand, revolver in the other, and a skinny teenager in tow.  
"Who's 'at?" Arthur asks, as Dutch ushers the boy into the back of the wagon and climbs up himself.  
"I'll explain later. Let's go."

****


	2. Chapter 2

****

Arthur sits at the card table with Hosea, disparagingly watching John Marston trying to figure out the gun he's been given. He fiddles with it, holds it up, arm straight, too straight, elbow locked, shifts his position, shifts it again.  
"He's not even tryin' to shoot, just to look cool," Arthur says scornfully, leaning back, and then to the side to see around Hosea's feet propped up on the table.  
Hosea glances over. "Give him a chance, Arthur, he only got it this morning."  
"Seems like a last week he took so long to choose it."  
"I remember someone else who got excited about their first gun." Hosea says without looking up, flicking his paper to straighten out the creases.  
"Well at least I knew how to hold the damn thing."  
"After some practice, yes."  
Arthur grits his teeth. Hosea has the advantage of age and an objective memory.  
"I don't know what you've got against the boy, Arthur."  
"I ain't got nothing against him. He's a snotty little kid, that's all."  
"He's about the same age as you were when you joined us," Hosea says reasonably, turning a page in his newspaper.  
"I was older."  
"Maybe by a few years," Hosea concedes. "But not by much. Now start acting your age and go on over and help him."  
"Aw really, Hosea?"  
"Go on."  
Arthur sighs, and drags himself to his feet.

"You tryin' to shoot with that gun, Marston, or just play at cowboys and Indians?"  
John barely spares him a glance."What do you want?"  
"Not to get shot, preferably," he says, leaning against a tree. "By someone who don't know how to handle a gun."  
"I can handle a gun just fine."  
"Can you. And how many o' them there cans have you shot, exactly?"  
John shuffles, trying to hide his embarrassment. "I'm just getting used to it, findin' my aim, that's all."  
"Go on then, aim."  
"What?"  
"Show me your aim," Arthur gestures to the row of tin cans lined up on the flat surface of a boulder.  
John looks at him, trying to decide if he's being genuinely helpful. Wary and unconvinced, he slowly lifts his gun. He's clearly self-conscious but trying to bravado it out.  
"Looks alright to me."  
John glances at him and his suspiciously supportive tone.  
"Go on then, shoot."  
John glances at him again.  
"Shoot!"  
John pulls the trigger.  
The gun clicks.  
Arthur bursts out laughing.  
"Shut up, Morgan," John says, kicking dusty gravel in his direction. He knew it was going to happen; the gun had only clicked the last three times he tried to fire it. Cheeks burning red, he looks at the ground to hide his reaction from the man already laughing at him.  
Arthur wipes a tear and shrugs away from the tree. Humour fading, he goes back to his derisiveness. "The safety's on, you dumbass."  
He casually takes it off with a flick of his hand, without even breaking his stride as he passes the younger boy.  
A gunshot rings out as John wastes no time in getting on with actually shooting.

"That was mean, Arthur," Hosea tells him without looking up.  
The sound of more shots and of bullets on aluminium rings around the camp.  
"Ain't nothin' wrong with mean. Only somethin' wrong with stupid."  
"I ain't stupid, Arthur!" John yells at him as he makes his way to his tent, the cans in his arms.  
Without missing a beat Arthur pulls his gun and shoots one right out of his hand.  
Too shocked to be angry, John just gapes at him. Arthur gives him a hard, steady stare as he holsters his gun.  
"That was mean and stupid!" Hosea shouts, getting to his feet. "What the hell are you playing at Arthur? Are you okay, John?"  
"I'm fine, Hosea," John says, without taking his eyes off Arthur. His gaze has hardened and he returns Arthur's stare as he throws the cans to the ground. He storms off into his tent.  
"What the hell did you do that for, Arthur?" Hosea rounds on him.  
"Just showin' him what shootin's supposed to look like," Arthur responds with feigned innocence. "Bein' a role model."  
"He's just a kid. He's been with us all of five minutes."  
"Exactly, and he's already got you and Dutch fawnin' over him!" Arthur snaps without really meaning to.  
"Oh," Hosea softens, almost laughs. "I see. You're jealous of the lad."  
"Of that?!" Arthur points to the direction of John's tent. He barks out a harsh laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Hosea."  
"You're not a boy anymore, Arthur." Hosea says sternly, keeping in Arthur's eye-line as he tries to look away. "You need to get over whatever this is, and yourself, before you get one of you hurt. Trust is all we have. We don't have money or the law on our side but we have trust, and family. You boys need to learn to trust each other like brothers."  
"He ain't ever gonna be my brother, Hosea."

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did guns have safeties back then?!?!? Probably not my bad


	3. Chapter 3

****

  
"Rule number one: never leave yourself open."  
John hits the ground hard with a thud and a groan, and Arthur gleefully scrambles on top of him. He puts his two first fingers against John's temple.  
"And BANG, Little Johnny Marston is dead."  
John struggles but it's no use. Arthur has ten years on him, and most of them he's been better fed and better trained.  
"Get off!"  
"Yes that'll work nicely on some O'Driscoll tryin' to kill ya," Arthur says, easily keeping the boy pinned. He mimes taking a knife to John's throat. "And SLASH, Little Johnny Marston is dead." He lifts his hands above his head, as if clutching a dagger he's about to thrust downwards into his chest.  
"And-"  
John sees the opening and jabs Arthur hard in the ribs on both sides. As Arthur doubles over, momentarily weakened, he takes the opportunity and shoves him off his torso. He scrambles to his feet as Arthur gets his bearings in the grass.  
"Rule number one," John pants. "Never leave yourself open."  
"I'm gonna _kill_ you John Marston!"

****


	4. Chapter 4

****

  
"How's it comin'?"  
"Not now, Morgan."  
"I'm serious," Arthur defends himself, leaning next to John on the large flat rock he's sat on, practicing his reading.

He feels bad for the kid. He's starting to not altogether hate him, and right now he even feels sorry for him. It was a rough beating he took in town. He told Dutch and Hosea John wasn't ready to take the lead on a con. Never mind him being years too old for the lost child act. He was finding himself pleasantly surprised, though, as John hustled his way into the house and almost got away clean. Almost. But then he got caught with pretty much all its valuables in his pockets, by just pure dumb un-luck, by the sounds of it. The old, doddery, half-blind fool of a man was visited by his less old, less doddery, and less blind son, who beat John like it would double the worth of what was almost stolen. And that was before dragging his ass to the sheriff, who Hosea had to charm and then bribe to let him free, and then of course was the subsequent scolding from Dutch.

"That's a goodun," Arthur nods at the book open in his lap.  
"You really don't have to do this," John says.  
"Do what?"  
"Be nice. Try to make me feel better."  
"What makes you think I'm being nice?"  
John just rolls his purpling eyes and concentrates on his book.

He's still moving his finger along the lines, mouthing the words to himself, but he's a quick learner. Arthur can't helping feeling jealous of all the praise he's been receiving from Dutch and Hosea lately, nor can he help likening it to memories of when he was that age and feeling like praise for him was comparatively rather sparse. So, whilst he does have some sympathy for today's botched job, he's secretly glad to see that his adolescence failures were not unique.

Arthur notices John's finger pause, his split lips forming and reforming the word, trying it in several different ways.  
"Conscience," Arthur says, a little blunt, but not making a big deal out of it either.  
John huffs and shifts, turning his back slightly so he can carry on without Arthur seeing.  
Arthur doesn't take offence at his lack of manners. He lights a cigarette and enjoys the peace and quiet, watching the spring. The trees are back to green again and the sun is filtering through them, casting green light and dappled shadows. He considers taking out his journal and sketching it. He always liked spring best. It's the prettiest season. And the best for living in.  
Deliberately or not Arthur doesn't notice John's frustrated sigh until he has turned around and elbowed him, holding up the book and pointing at the word he's stuck on.  
"Abnegation."  
John frowns down at the page. "Well what the hell does that mean?"  
"Beats me," Arthur shrugs. "Hosea will give you better books eventually."  
"I thought you said this was a goodun."  
"Well what d'you know, I was being nice."

****


	5. Chapter 5

****

"You're going to be okay, son."

Arthur grimaces as more blood pours out of the wound.

It's not even his leg that's been torn to bits by bullets, or his ears that Dutch's words are intended for. The boy whose leg it is, groans.  
"Keep talking to him, boys," Hosea tells Arthur and John, from where he is doing his best with the wound.  
They're sat either side of the boy's torso, holding him, keeping him still when he lashes out in pain, so that Hosea can do his best to stem the bleeding.  
Dutch is on the lookout, because it was the gunfire between them and the O'Driscolls that the lad got caught in. Arthur thinks it's also because he doesn't want to get his hands dirty.  
He had had to be convinced to stop and help, after all. Arthur had refused to leave without him, John had followed suit, and when Hosea agreed it was the right thing to do, Dutch, already mounted on The Count, relented and allowed Arthur to lift the boy onto the back of his horse. They had ridden as far as possible before the youngster was faint from blood loss.  
"What's your name, friend?" Arthur asks, doing as Hosea says.  
"Freddie," he moans. He lifts his head, to try and see what he can feel, but John and Arthur lean in closer to block his view.  
Arthur has taken a look. Freddie doesn't want to see this.  
"Where are you from, Freddie?" John asks.  
"Just- West of- Blackwater..." he gasps out.  
"Blackwater, where'sat?" John asks Arthur.  
Arthur just shrugs. "What you doin' all the way out here, then?"  
"Sellin'...livestock...got good...cows...this year..."  
Arthur steals another glance at the torn flesh, the oozing black holes and the pouring blood. Hosea's hands and forearms are covered in it. Even rolled to the elbows his shirt sleeves haven't escaped. Arthur lifts his eyes to see Hosea staring at him with a hardened look. He shakes his head fractionally.  
John is chatting to Freddie about the ranch he lives on, the prize cow named Ilsa.  
"My...mother's...mother. Pa thought...it would be...a good joke..."  
"I bet your Momma wasn't too pleased with that," Arthur joins in, trying to get John's attention.  
"No, no she...she weren't..." Freddie smiles breathlessly.  
As John asks another stupid question about the cow, Arthur catches Hosea murmuring to Dutch. Rejoining them, Dutch, leaned down to hear him, glances at the boy's face. His eyes catch Arthur's. He holds his gaze, and Arthur doesn't like the look he sees in it.  
"Well you're gonna be just fine, Freddie," John says.  
Arthur glances at him, wondering if he should be making such bold statements.  
Freddie opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by Dutch.  
"Son, what's your parents' names?"  
"Franny and...Jeremy...Fellows..."  
"I'm sure they love you, son."  
Arthur looks up sharply, he knows that tone.  
"I...I think they do..."

The gun fires before Arthur has time to process what he knew was coming.

He flinches instinctively, at the sound, at the proximity of the bullet over his head. By the time he looks at Freddie, there's a gaping bullet wound in his forehead. He stares at Freddie's blank expression and opened face.  
" _Jesus_ Dutch!" John yells.  
"What the hell did you do that for?!" Arthur joins in.  
"I was savin' him from a long and painful death," Dutch defends himself, holstering his gun. "He weren't gonna make it. Right Hosea?"  
He looks down at his partner in crime. Hosea's head is hung to his chest. "No. No he wasn't going to make it." He says quietly.  
Arthur feels sick. His breathing is rapid, his heart pounding against his chest. Now the shock is fading, he thinks he feels some blood spattered on his cheek.  
John doesn't know what do to with himself. Shocked and angry, he scrambles to his feet to confront Dutch. "You just-!"  
"Don't act like you never seen a man killed before, John," Dutch says, harshly.  
"He wasn't a man, he was a boy!"  
"We ain't got time for this, get on your damn horse. Same goes for all of you."  
No one moves.  
"I said come on! Arthur! Hosea!"  
Hosea is looking regretfully at Freddie's face. He sighs and finally slowly climbs to his feet. "C'mon Arthur."  
Arthur's legs are prickly beneath him, either from resting on them too long or from the numbness he feels draping over him.  
"C'mon," he murmurs to John as he passes.  
"Boys!" Dutch yells from his horse.  
Still in his trance, Arthur looks behind him. He hasn't made it very far, but John is still staring at the boy's body in disbelief.  
"Marston. Marston! John!"  
John looks up, and still breathing hard, and there's a look of fear in his wide eyes.

"I did the right thing, didn't I, Arthur?"  
On the ride back to camp, Hosea and John have hung back, in order for Hosea to have a talk with John, give him some reassurance. John wouldn't listen to it coming from Dutch. Now Dutch's own self-confidence is wavering. He looks to Arthur in need of reassurance himself, but something about the tone of the question and the expression on his face makes Arthur think there is a right answer.  
"You did the right thing, Dutch."  
"The boy was going to die. There was no way we could have brought him along with us, or taken him back to his parents, even. If we did we would have been caught by the O'Driscolls or the law. The camp comes first."  
He nods determinedly, like he was convincing himself more than Arthur - who had already agreed anyway.  
"The camp comes first," Arthur confirms.  
He's made up his mind that Dutch was right to shoot the boy and is right in his reasoning. Hosea had tried his best but wasn't able to save him. They had already done a good thing by getting him out of there, by trying. They didn't even know where he lived, so how could they have taken him home? It was probably too far anyway. He would have died on the journey, as well as getting them all killed.  
It wasn't even anybody's fault that he got shot. Wrong place at the wrong time. Unlucky.  
He has told himself this, made peace with it and settled his nerves by the time they get back to camp. Hosea and John don't catch them up, and arrive a few minutes after them. John goes straight to his tent. Hosea goes to speak with Dutch.  
Brushing his horse, Arthur hears the heated end of whatever they were talking about.  
"I'm going to wash this blood off my hands." Hosea marches out of Dutch's tent and to the bucket of water outside his.  
Dutch steps out to watch him go. He turns, and.Arthur goes back to brushing the mud out of his mare's coat to narrowly avoid being caught watching.

That almost shakes his resolve, but by the evening he has managed to all but forget what happened that afternoon. Hosea and Dutch are fine again, contentedly reminiscing around the fire. Not really part of the conversation - he can't be, it's about events before he knew either of them - Arthur is content to listen from the other side of the circle, laughing at the scrapes they used to get into and out of again.

After a while, John joins him on the log.  
"What happened, Marston, you faint at the sight of blood?"  
John turns an angered frown to him. "Don't act like it was nothin' Arthur."  
His seriousness takes Arthur by surprise. Once again his calm conscience is rattled. He sobers as he sees in John's face all the emotions he should be feeling, that he's turned away from in blind faith.  
John looks at the fire, quiet but the flames and something else burning behind his eyes. "It could have been me."  
Arthur frowns at him. "What?"  
"He was fifteen, Arthur." John turns to him with a steady, loaded gaze. "It could have been me Dutch shot in the head."  
Arthur stares. He realises that maybe he's been fooling himself.  
John's eyes flick between his. Realising he's not going to get a reaction, that he's alone in this, John sighs, shaking his head as he climbs to his feet.  
Still reeling, Arthur watches the teenager go.  
"It wouldn't," he calls after him. "It wouldn't have been you."  
"Why?" John asks, almost helplessly. "What's the difference between me and that poor kid?"  
"You're family."  
John frowns, trying to work out whether he believes him, whether that makes it better or worse.  
"You are family, John."  
Both of them are caught by surprise. Neither had realised Dutch had overheard them.  
"If it had been one of you boys, I would have ridden through hell and high water, I would have turned myself in, I would have walked unarmed into a camp of O'Driscolls, if it meant going back for you. You know that."  
Yes, he knows that. Arthur knows that. He knows that it would never be either him or John in the boy's position in the first place. Dutch wouldn't let that happen. And, if it did, Dutch would do whatever it takes. He trusts in that. He trusts in the camp. He trusts in Dutch.  
He even nods to himself a little at Dutch's words.  
Dutch tilts his head to the side, still focussed on the younger boy. "Right John?"  
Deliberating, John just looks at him. It's almost defiant.  
" _Right_ , John?"  
"I know, Dutch," he says finally, looking to the floor.  
"Good." Finally Dutch breaks into his famous van der Linde smile. He pats John on the shoulder as he passes in the direction of his tent. "Goodnight, fellers."  
"G'night," they collectively murmur.  
Without looking up, John retires to his tent too.  
Arthur turns back around, and meets Hosea's gaze across the fire.

There's something understood between them that they don't voice for many, many years.

****


	6. Chapter 6

****

  
"Why d'you wear that?"  
Fixing his hat on his head, Arthur glances over his shoulder. "What have I told you about loiterin' around outside my tent?"  
"I'm nowhere _near_ your tent," John retorts defensively.  
In fairness, he's leaning against the table in the middle of camp, but this camp is small and so he is still too close for comfort. Perhaps it's the claustrophobia that's making Arthur more tetchy than usual at the moment, and why he is especially sensitive about his privacy.  
Ignoring him, Arthur slings his gun over his shoulder and strides towards the horses, as if he'd been the one waiting for John.  
"So?"  
"So what," Arthur asks as he mounts.  
"Why'd you wear that hat?"  
"I like it." He responds simply.  
"Huh," is John's response, which irks Arthur more.  
"Is that okay with you, John Marston?"  
"Just normally you always got a reason for everythin'," John explains as they start cantering on the road towards town. "I figured the hat would be the same. Protection from the sun or...somethin'."  
That is a much better answer and Arthur wishes he had said it.  
"It's good to know you do actually like things, Morgan."  
"You ain't one of them."  
Arthur's insults barely have an effect anymore. At the beginning, when John was younger and wounded, they stung. Now his emotional scars have healed and he's used to the jibes, he's more worried when Arthur is nice to him. He even enjoys the banter between them, but especially his role in the dynamic, which is to do his utmost to annoy Arthur.  
"You think it would suit me?"  
"Marston, you will wear my hat over my dead body."

 

****


	7. Chapter 7

"This ain't my fault, Arthur."

"John, I think it would be better for both of us right now for you to keep your Goddamn mouth shut."

John isn't happy about it, but he bites the inside of his cheek. Leaning against the bars of the cell, he looks over his shoulder at the sheriff's office behind him. It's quiet, the sheriff and his deputy lounging at the desk. The sheriff is sat, arms folded, head lolling against his chest.

"Hey I think the sheriff is asleep."

"John." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course he claimed the single bed in the cell.

"I'm just sayin'-"

"Exactly. Stop sayin'."

John huffs and goes back to watching the office. The sheriff is definitely asleep and the deputy appears to be studying the tobacco in his spittoon. John leans his head back against the bar.

_How did we get caught by these two?_

 

"You been arrested before?"

Arthur gives him a look. "Course I have. But usually it's for somethin' of my own doin'."

John ignores that pointed comment. "How did you get out?"

With a small chuckle, Arthur leans back on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, his foot twitching as it rests on his knee. "You'll see."

It's uncomfortable on the floor but John's fatigue wins out. He's drifting off to sleep when a huge explosion starts him awake and makes him hit his head against the cell bars. Arthur yells as he's thrown off the bed. They cough as the dust clears. When John gets a hold of his senses his sees Arthur is already heading for the newly-blasted hole in the wall.

"You comin', Mr M?" It's Dutch's voice that reaches John through the smoke and the confusion, and he suddenly understands.

He scrambles forward and out through the brick, and the three of them hurry down the

"Took your time," Arthur says as he mounts his horse.

"Thought it would be good for you boys to have some time to _reflect_ ," Dutch says. "Thought it might teach you a lesson."

 

John rides back as fast as he can. As fast as he _can_. Well, as fast as the horse can. He doesn't have time to ponder the curiosity of the expression. His horse, who deserves most of the credit, has barely come to a stop when he leaps off. He skids to a halt in front of Dutch and Hosea, his breathing so hard his lungs might burst. The two men are surprised to see him in such a state.

"Woah, John, what's the hurry?" Hosea asks with a chuckle.

"It's Arthur," he gasps.

Immediately worried at the pains John has clearly gone to bring them this news, Dutch and Hosea glance at each other.

"What about Arthur?" Dutch presses.

"I saw- saw him..." he has to take a moment to breathe, or he might throw up.

Dutch and Hosea wait with increasing worry and decreasing patience.

"...the sheriff..." John bends over double, hands on his knees.

"Arrested?" Hosea guesses.

Still in half, John nods.

They sigh,  a little relieved it's nothing more serious. The way John was making it out it could have been anything from stung by a nettle to dead.

"Someone caught him tryna rob this rich feller's horse and fetched the sheriff. " John straightens, holding the stitch in his side. "The sheriff recognised him from...well..."

"All the times before," Hosea finishes grimly.

"They say they might hang him." John's eyes are wide. Hanging has only really been an abstract conceptual threat before. But Arthur is locked in a jail cell and now the rope seems pretty real.

"No one is getting hanged," Dutch assures him, hand on his shoulder. He turns to Hosea. "Are you going or shall I?"

"Whose turn is it?"

"I think it's yours."

Hosea sighs. "Fine. I'm pretty sure this is the same sheriff you charmed a few weeks ago anyway," he says, going over to the crate of alcohol bottles. John watches as Hosea chooses three.

"Go and catch your breath, son," Dutch tells him. "Arthur will be fine."

"See you later," Hosea calls as he mounts. "Maybe this evening. Depends how keen these fellers are to party."

 

John is more relieved than he would like to admit when he hears hooves approaching camp that evening. He is more worried than he would like to admit when it's Hosea alone.

Even Dutch seems anxious. "What happened?" he asks before Hosea has even got his foot out of the stirrup.

"They were up for a party alright," Hosea says. "But they didn't want to let Arthur go. You were right, John, they know him and they have it in for him. And they know you, Dutch. They clocked on after your Tacitus act last time."

John's breathing escalates like he has just ridden again.

"Alright, alright," Dutch says, trying to stay calm, one hand on his hip the other at his mouth. John can hear the tremor in his voice. "Well, we have some time. We can try again in the morning. At least we know where he is."

It's little comfort and they all know it. John doubts either of the others got much more sleep than he did last night. He uses it to his advantage. He can only hope that Dutch and Hosea have either finally fallen asleep or don't notice he's gone until it's too late. At the crack of dawn he crawls out of his tent and mounts his horse, and gallops out of camp before they can stop him, either way. Because they would most definitely stop him.

He thinks he's being smart. He hitches his horse a little ways down the street and on the opposite side. He leans against it casually, until he sees the sheriff swap shift with his deputy, who yawns and stretches as he steps into the morning. He waits until the deputy has ridden off home, and there is no one else around. He takes his bandana with him and pulls it over his face as he climbs the porch steps. Fingers curling around his gun, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, before knocking on the door.

The sheriff opens it, and staggers backwards from the gun pointed at his chest. "Don't do anything stupid now," he says, hands up.

With all his might John whacks him across the face with the gun. It knocks the sheriff out cold. He falls to the floor in a slump.

Arthur always teases him for being weedy, so he forgets that that's only by his standards, and actually he could take most other people in a fight. He stares, a little shocked at his own strength. As he gathers his wits he makes a mental note to use this the next time Arthur tries to tease him for being weak. Though, he supposes, after this Arthur isn't going to be able to tease him for a very long time.

"John?" Arthur blinks, sitting up on the bed that's less comfortable than the ground.

John grabs the sheriff's keys. He fumbles a bit finding the right one, then gives up and just shoots the lock.

"I never thought I'd say this Marston but I'm glad to see you," Arthur says as they hurry out of the sheriff's office. "I thought that was it when Hosea getting them drunk didn't work."

"We should split up," says John, yanking the bandana off.

"See you at the usual place." Arthur jogs away to go an collect his horse, still where he left it the day before.

John's heart is still racing as he mounts. It's strange, he muses, how shooting and stealing he can do without a second thought now, but punching a sheriff and breaking a jail cell makes him feel like the first time Dutch took him on a job when he was young. Something about its proximity to the law makes it feel somehow even more unlawful.

He feels a lot better once he's made it out of the town, and better still when he gets to the clearing they established as the rendezvous point when they first moved near this town. It doesn't take him long to get edgy waiting for Arthur. It's realistically no more than a few minutes but in that time he manages to convince himself he's got caught again, and this time taken straight to the gallows. He breathes a sigh of relief and tries not to look to happy when Arthur finally appears.

"I owe you," Arthur says, a little out of breath. He looks over his shoulder, back the way he came in the direction of the town, out of habit. "Did Dutch send you?"

John shakes his head. "I'm not sure what he was gonna do. Don't think he was, either."

Arthur looks at him with new eyes, a new found respect. "Well thanks, Marston."

John nods, feeling a little awkward. Neither of them much like it when they're sincere. "You're gonna have to be much nicer to me now," he says, leading the way back to camp.

"Oh, you're gonna enjoy holdin' this over me, aren't you? I should have stayed in that cell."

Dutch and Hosea scold John for being so reckless, but out of principle rather than actually punishing the deed. He knows they have to reprimand him for being risky, but are glad, on this occasion, that he was.

To be fair to Arthur, he is nicer to him. It lasts a whole day.

 

Arthur had quite enjoyed his ride back to camp. It was leisurely for once, calm. He always is happier after his stays away. The spring sunshine was warm but not too hot, the flowers are out. He even stopped to sketch a deer. He blames women, making him go soft. Deer and sunshine. He laughs at himself.

His bubble of content is shattered when he walks into camp.

"Have you seen John?" Dutch asks immediately.

"No?" Arthur frowns at the worry on his face. "Why?"

"He didn't meet us after our caravan job," Hosea explains.

"The law were on our tale." Dutch adds.

Arthur glances between them, puts two and two together as they did. He realises they were pinning the last of their optimism on him. He is the one that makes five. "Shit."

 

John is not as calm as Arthur in these cells. He hasn't been in them enough yet to trust that he'll get out. And after last time with Arthur, it's no longer a given that he will.

He paces back and forth, as much as the cramped space will allow, throwing glances over to the sheriff's desk. At least he doesn't seem very urgent. He's not going to be hung immediately. He doesn't have that level of notoriety yet. He has some time.

"Sit down, son, you're giving me a headache," the sheriff says, without looking up from his papers.

John grits his teeth and does as he's told.

The deputy, bored, wanders over to taunt him. "You might be in here a while. Best get used to it."

He sneers at him, but the deputy just laughs and wanders back to the desk to light a cigarette.

John tries to settle into the quiet.  Well, a long time in here means a long time not dead, so there's that.

Suddenly the door is kicked open. The two lawmen jump up, but they each stare down the barrel of a gun.

Despite the bandana, John knows exactly who he is. He recognises the hat, and the gruff voice.

"You, stay there," Arthur says to the sheriff, gesturing with his gun to the chair behind the desk.

"Sir, I am the sheriff of this town-"

Arthur shoots at the roof, then aims the gun at his just again. "I know who you are. I said stay there."

The sheriff slowly lowers himself down.

"You," he turns his attention to the deputy, who, John is satisfied to see, is shaking violently. "Open that cell."

The deputy fumbles with the keys, due to his trembling hands, but with some healthy motivation from Arthur, gets it open. John wastes no time in getting out.

"Count to ten before you come runnin' after us," Arthur warns. "Or consider not runnin' at all."

 

"Think we lost 'em," Arthur says, as they make it into grass and trees.

"Yeah. Thanks, Arthur.

"You would do the same. Have done the same. Now you can finally stop holdin'  your darin' rescue over me."

John laughs. "Are you still not over that? It was months ago."

"You're still not, because you keep poking fun about it," Arthur tells him. "Now we're even. You can let it go."

"Oh, I don't know about that..."

"Marston, I swear I will take you back to that cell."

****  



	8. Chapter 8

****

No one speaks as Arthur storms his way back into camp.

He's not angry. It's far, far more than that. It's spent rage and the deepest sorrow and bitterest grief. It's blood splattered on his hands and shirt and tears dried in his eyes.

Having waited up for him, Dutch, Hosea and John watch him, but don't dare say anything. Doing his best to ignore their eyes on him, he moves past them wordlessly, goes straight to the crate of beer kept next to the supply wagon. He bites the lid off one and spits it to the side, downs the drink and throws the bottle into the grass. Still silent, he retreats to his tent.

Glancing at Dutch and Hosea, John climbs to his feet and tentatively approaches. He hovers just outside the tent, not sure whether to disturb Arthur's stony silence as he sits on the edge of his cot and stares unseeingly at the green canvas wall.

"Are you alright, Arthur-"

"Go to bed, Marston."

Knowing him better than to push it, John does as he's told.

After that, Arthur is even quieter than normal, but there's a new weight to it. There's a change in him, in the way he kills. He doesn't even flinch when he shoots a man in the head.

He's lost too much to care about losing much more.

If there's one thing he has learned about love. The having ain't worth the losing.

****


	9. Chapter 9

****

The men aren't sure what else to do so huddle around the ashes of the campfire as if they're the ones who need solidarity. They're awkward in the way men are about women's things and silent because Abigail's screams from her tent are chilling and too disturbing to hold polite conversation over. They get louder as the tent flap opens and briefly allows some words to be distinguished.

" _Where's John_?! _Where is he, he_ -"

"Wherever he is he is wise to stay there," Bill mutters. "Though he can probably hear her, the racket she's makin'..."

Arthur kicks him hard in the side of the shin.

"What?"

"When you can bring life forth into the world you be sure to let us know Bill Williamson," Miss Grimshaw scolds him as she approaches.

"If there were more Bill Williamsons in this world God help us all," Arthur says, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Any word on John?" Miss Grimshaw asks worriedly.

"Not yet, Miss Grimshaw," Dutch replies, like she's asking if the food is ready. "We'll be sure to send him straight to you."

"Well he better not be much longer else he's going to miss the birth of his child!"

"If it is his child," Bill mutters as she walks away.

"Shut _up_ , Bill," Arthur tells him.

"Arthur."

"Yes Dutch," he sighs, having a good idea of where this is heading.

"Go out and see if you can find him, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah..." he says, unsurprised and proven right, as he grinds his heel over his cigarette.

 

He knows John Marston better than either of them would like to admit.

He knows that John will have hit the bar and he knows which bar he has taken a liking to in the town nearest to camp.

Lo and behold he finds him slumped over a table with a whiskey in his hand that is definitely not his first.

"Arthur..." He is definitely drunk because it's almost a pleasant greeting. "What you are doing here?"

"Takin' your ass back to your woman," Arthur says, not in a pleasant greeting. He pushes his shoulder to prompt him.

"Is...is she...okay?"

"Okay?!" Arthur asks incredulously, physically stepping back. After a moment, he recovers and grabs John roughly by the lapels of his leather jacket. "Of course she's not okay. And she's screamin' for you, so get the hell up."

He drags him to his feet and away from the table. John's foot catches on his chair and stumbles.

"Goddammit Marston," Arthur says, keeping him on his feet but not kindly. He all but pushes him through the saloon doors and out into the sunshine.

John goes straight to his horse. He's swaying on both his feet so it does not help when he lifts one of them to the stirrup to try to mount.

"Get down- what the hell you doin', you ain't gonna ride like this," Arthur says. He pushes John on the shoulder, gently but firmly enough to cause him to lean back on the hitching post. "You need to sober up."

He takes John's canteen from his horse's saddle, but as he's passing it to him he realises it feels awful light and shakes it to confirm. "It's empty," he sighs, exasperated. The amount of time he, Dutch and Hosea have tried to drill into him to keep his canteen full and still he's never seen it hold anything but air. He grudgingly hands John his own. John chugs it down, not, Arthur thinks, with the aim of sobering up, just to remedy his body's dehydration which he hadn't noticed until now.

John sighs, wipes his lips and hands Arthur the empty canteen, which Arthur swaps for a sizeable chunk of bread from his satchel.

"Eat that," he says, pointing at it. John obeys and it's quiet as he chews. One hand against John's  horse, Arthur leans and watches the town going about its afternoon business.

He sees a boy of about fourteen stealing two loaves of bread and a block of cheese from the wagon unloading its goods at the back of the general store across the street. He's grubby, his skin and his torn clothes somehow all the same shade of brown, and skinny, the dirty rags hanging off his small frame. Arthur turns a blind eye.

He studies the appearance of a clearly wealthy couple as they pick their way through the mud, looking about the town like they're on some vacation to see how those without live. They're too far away to hear but he can imagine them remarking on how simple and quaint it all is. The woman points at a pig pen and they stop to observe it like they've never seen a live animal before. Perhaps they haven't.

He watches as a woman storms up the steps and into the saloon, only to remerge moments later with her husband in tow.

"So help me, Henry Cartwright, I will leave your sorry ass in the gutter next time. My Momma was right you ain't been nothin' but trouble since I married you!"

Arthur watches them go down the street, the wife yelling, the husband staggering, before turning back round to his own retrieved drunkard.

"Better?"

John misses the slight sarcasm and nods as he once again attempts to mount his horse. Arthur rolls his eyes as he misses the stirrup the first time. He goes to help him up but John shrugs him off.  

"I'm fine."

He seems to have sobered in mood as well.

"What the hell were you thinkin' runnin' off to the saloon," Arthur asks as they take the road out of town.

"Shut up I don't need a lecture from you."

They ride in near silence, only the steady yet urgent thudding of the horses' hooves.

"Do you think it's mine?"

Arthur glances at him as they take the turning into the clearing they've made their camp.

"I think if she says it's yours you got to trust that it is."

John looks at him, a sincere look for reassurance in his eye, and seems to take his words to heart. He gives a little nod as they slow the horses to trotting to enter the camp.

"God knows she wouldn't have claimed it was yours if it weren't," Arthur says to dispel the tension and the tenderness of the moment. "You wouldn't be her first choice of father if she _had_ the choice."

John rolls his eyes, but appreciates the banter almost more than the sincerity.

"John Marston!"

"Here we go," John mutters as they hitch the horses and dismount.

"Where the hell have you been?! You are lucky I am too busy with my hands full of these towels to beat you," Miss Grimshaw says as she carries said towels into Abigail's tent. "You stay right there! Don't you be disappearin' again."

"Thought you'd try and get out of it, huh Marston?" Bill asks as they join the huddle still around the campfire. "Don't blame ya."

"Shut up Bill."

"Welcome back, John," Dutch says, more friendly. "It can't be long now."

"But still got time to escape, eh?" Javier says, elbowing him gently in the side.

"Where'd you find him?" Hosea asks Arthur discreetly.

"In the saloon," Arthur murmurs back. "He's goin' to be a fine father if he nurses his child the way he was that whiskey."

 

The campfire is lit, the men still around it, when Miss Grimshaw finally calls John into the tent. It's dark by now, and been a tense while since Abigail suddenly went quiet.. All the men go silent, even Bill.

A few minutes later John emerges. "It's a boy."

They all cheer and congratulate him. He accepts it with a small smile, but the tension doesn't fully leave his face.

There's an awkward pause as they're not sure if the good news is about to be soured by bad.

"And Abigail?" Hosea asks.

"She's just fine."

There's another cheer and a definite sense of relief among them. Arthur thinks that John's lack of joy is just his intensified fear now that he actually is a father rather than just talking about being one.

"Well done Abigail!" Dutch calls. "We'll raise a glass for you! Everyone, we're celebratin'!"

Along with all the other women, Karen, Tilly, Mary-Beth, who have been scurrying back and forth for supplies all afternoon, John is shooed out of the tent again as Abigail rests. He rejoins the campfire, now blazing and lively with chatting and laughing, the clinking of bottles, and singing accompanied by Javier's guitar. He finds himself drawn to Arthur, the least obnoxiously joyous.

"Congratulations," Arthur says quietly but sincerely as he hands him a beer.

"Thanks," John says with a small smile, in response to both.

"He got a name?"

"Jack," John says with a small determined nod.

"Jack Marston. That's a good name,"  Arthur says appreciatively, taking a swig.

"Jack Marston," John repeats to himself, again hit by the realisation of how his life has changed forever.

The rest of the camp goes quiet.

"A toast!" Dutch calls, standing on a chair. "To John and his family!"

"To John and his family!"

"John and his family," Arthur says, clinking bottles with John. "The Marstons."

****


	10. Chapter 10

****

"How's the arm?"

Arthur glares at John, as he does anyone who mentions the bullet wound.  "Fine."

"Just askin'," John says. "Tryna be ni-" He stops abruptly and quickly moves a gun out of the reach of the toddler on his knee. "Goddammit Bill! How many times I told you not to leave your gun lyin' around!"

"Sorry, Marston, I ain't used to little brats runnin' about the place," Bill grumbles, picking up the revolver anyway.

"Yeah well _get_ used to it!" John calls after him, a little lamely. He tightens his hold on Jack, who's crawled half-way across the table, and pulls him back to his knee.

"Pa!" Jack squirms, trying to wrestle his way out of his father's grasp. John takes no notice of him, and eventually he gives in and picks up his toy soldier to play with again.

"How come you're on babysittin' duty, anyway,"  Arthur asks around the cigarette he's put between his lips.

"Abigail's gone to town on some job with Hosea," John says, a little bitterly. "Not quite sure how that's happened. My woman off workin' whilst I'm stuck here with the kid like some Goddamn wet nurse." He shakes his head.

"I thought you'd be happy to get out of work, you usually are," Arthur says as he strikes a match against his boot.

"Ooh!" Little Jack's eyes light up and reaches for it.

Arthur holds it up and away from him, turning his body to light the cigarette.  "Don't be an idiot, now, kiddo." He waves the match until it's out.

"What does your mother say about fire?" John asks him.

"It's bad," Jack recites.

"That's right. And what will it do?"

"Hurt."

"Exactly."

Fatherly duty done for the day, John goes back to watching the camp as Jack goes back to bouncing his solider across the table in an approximation of a walk. If humans walked with their legs fixed to a block of wood. He half drops, half throws the toy off the side of the table. Arthur blinks and looks down, drawn from his thoughts as it hits his boot. He grunts as he leans down to pick it up and hand it back.

"Thanks, Uncle Arthur!"

Both Arthur and John freeze. They stare at each other.

"What...what did you just call me?"

"Uncle Arthur!"

"What...what did you just call him?"

"Uncle Arthur!"

Jack repeats himself happily, like it's some sort of singing game, making his solider dance. If humans danced with their legs fixed to a block of wood.

John and Arthur look at each other, eyes wide with surprise and, in Arthur's case, a hint of fear.

"W-why?" Arthur asks tentatively.

"Momma said I should," Jack replies happily.

He glances at John, who's staring at Jack in confusion, and shifts uncomfortably. "Well we best not disagree with your Momma."

"Ain't that the truth," John says with a wry smile.

"Boy can barely speak and he's calling me Uncle," Arthur murmurs.

"Don't you like being called Uncle?" Jack asks innocently, his hearing as sharp as any child's.

Does he like it? He's not sure. He doesn't _not_ like it. He guesses he cares for Jack in the same way and about as much as an uncle would. For him to _call_ him uncle, though, makes it official. It's not the same but he imagines it's akin to the responsibility John realised he had when Jack was born and the subsequent worry he felt.

But the way the boy's looking at him, he can't say no. But he doesn't want to admit to either himself, John, or the boy, that he's anything more than his gruff outer exterior.

"I don't wanna be confused with that lazy, lumbago-ridden sack of sh- ...potatoes is all."

John bursts out laughing.

Jack looks between them confusedly. "What?"

"Never mind." Arthur chuckles with John. He looks back at the young boy to see him still looking at him confused and expectant. "You can call me Uncle Arthur," he says, only really pretending to be reluctant.

Jack grins at him, making him think it might be the right decision. He fights his own smile. Don't want to lose his reputation.

Not long after that, Abigail and Hosea return.

"Hi Momma! Hi Uncle Hosea!"

 He's surprised to find himself a little bit jealous of the title he discovers he shares with Hosea, and as he will later find out, pretty much everyone in the camp.

"See, you ain't that special, Morgan," John smirks at him, as Abigail takes Jack from his lap and tickles him.

"How'd the job go?" Arthur asks Hosea over the sound of Jack's giggles, in order to ignore John, mostly.

"Pretty darn near perfect," Hosea says happily, hands rested on his hips. "I think I should start taking Miss Roberts along instead of you boys all the time. God knows she does a better job."

"You should have done that long ago, Hosea," Abigail grins, Jack on her hip, happy with both the successful job and the praise.

John looks comically worried by that prospect.

"How's the arm, Arthur?" Hosea asks.

Arthur glares at him as he did John. "Just fine," he sighs, pretending he doesn't wince as he pushes away from the table.

"Bye Uncle Arthur!" Jack calls after him.

That brings a smile to his face, makes him forget his mood and the stinging ache in his arm.

****


	11. Chapter 11

****

"Has anyone seen John?"

Abigail wanders around the camp with increasing desperation that day.

No one takes particular notice, which they all feel a little guilty for afterwards. About to go on a sizeable heist job, they are more angry at John for leaving them a man down than worried about him, and leave Abigail and Jack at the camp with Miss Grimshaw and a few words of reassurance.

When they all return,  John still hasn't been seen.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon enough, Abigail," Dutch says. It is almost dismissive, he's so excited about the success of the robbery and the large score from it.

As most of them are. They all celebrate like nothing has happened, even bitches about John and how he had missed out on all the fun after Abigail goes to bed with Jack. She goes quite early, but hadn't been particularly lively around the fire anyway.

The next day, most of them are all nursing hangovers, their heads too full of fuzzy aches to be able to spare a thought for Marston.

"He's a big boy," Arthur says, taking his lead, as ever, from Dutch and Hosea, who don't seem too worried.

Abigail takes Jack into town to check the post office anyway.

When, on the third day, there has still been no sign or word, Abigail grows despairing, sure something has happened, spiralling into thoughts of being alone and Jack being fatherless. Tilly and Karen comfort her in her tent, whilst Jack, knowing something is wrong but not what, entertains himself with sticks and toy soldiers around the camp, under the close eye of the others.

Arthur watches as Mary-Beth read him a story.

"Do you think something's happened?" he murmurs to Hosea.

"I don't know," he says truthfully. "If the O'Driscolls got to him we would have heard about it. Same if it was the law."

Arthur hums, not entirely convinced. He is starting to get edgy too. Not that he'd ever admit it, especially to Marston.

Still, they all get on with their day - they have to. The world stands still for nobody in this life.

"Get it while it's hot!"

Arthur is not a fan of Pearson's cooking, but today he is too hungry and too lazy to cook his own. He'd eaten the last of his private stash of bread yesterday when he was barely able to get out of bed for the effects of the drink.

It seems most of the camp have the same idea, all gravitating towards the stew-pot hung over the fire in the centre of camp. Mary-Beth takes it upon herself to help Jack with his bowl. Abigail watches blankly as she waits in line to fill hers, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Abigail." Arthur greets her. "How're you holding up?"                                                                                          

She looks at him with the same blank expression. She probably doesn't even know who is speaking at first. But then Arthur sees the idea light up her eyes. "Hi, Arthur. I'm, well, I'm worried sick."

"Mm," Arthur nods, filling up a bowl. "I imagine. I'm sure he's fine though."

He hands her the bowl.

"Oh- thank you."

He notices her hovering, and tries to ignore it, with a sense of what was coming. But she follows him as he movs to sit down and really doesn't let him escape. She tries valiantly to let him eat. She leaves hers on her lap, moving her spoon around absently as she throws him furtive sideways glances. He gets to about the third spoonful, blowing on it to cool it, before she can't help herself.

"Arthur-"

"I know what you're gonna say, Abigail," he says, downing his spoon with a sigh. He turns to look at her. "I just don't see what I can do."

"You could look," she says hopefully. "I would if I could but y'all won't let me-"

"It's dangerous. And you got Jack to think about."

"Exactly. Please, Arthur."

"And just where do you suggest I look? I have no idea where he is."

He realises, when she looks down sharply, that his words, designed to be pragmatic, are a little harsher than he intended.

"I'm sorry Abigail. I didn't-" he sighs. "Look. John Marston is an idiot and a fool, but God knows he can survive. He'll be back, sure enough."

Still without looking up, she nods and wipes at her face with her sleeve.

Feeling awkward and guilty, he pats her on the shoulder and moved away.

 

The next day even he is starting to feel worried. A tight knot weights his stomach, a strange dread that he can neither get rid of or ignore, nagging at the back of his mind all day.

As dusk drew in, he sits with his journal at the bottom of a tree at the edge of camp, trying to capture the exact way the golden sunlight picks out the flowers from the grass, when Jack wanders over and stands in the grass nearby. He is looking down at the tufts of grass he's kicking up.

"Hey there, Jack."

"Hi."

"What you got there?"

Jack holds the toy soldier out towards him proudly.

"That's a mighty fine solider you got there."

Jack nods with a smile. Then the pride wears off, was overcome by his sadness, and he looks back down as his fingers fiddle with it. Arthur watches for a while, noting his uncharacteristically subdued nature, waiting for him to say something more. He doesn't, so Arthur looks back down to his sketch.

"Uncle Arthur?"

"Mmm?"

"Do...do you...do you know where Pa is?"

Arthur looks up then, and soon regrets it, at the sight of the boy's earnest, almost pleading face.

"I'm sorry, Jack, I don't."

Jack hangs his head, disheartened. "Okay."

"Jack-"

But he has already run off.

Arthur sighs and leans back against the tree. "Dammit, Marston, where are you?"

Everyone else is winding down for the night as he slings his satchel and his guns over his back and mounts his horse.

"Arthur?" Dutch asks. "Where are you going?"

"To look for John," he grunts, half determined, half already given up.

Abigail comes running up to his horse. "Oh thank you Arthur, thank you!"

He nods with a small smile, turns his horse around and gallops out of camp.

 

Well, he searches for half the night. Every town within a few hours ride. No one he speaks to has seen him. He checks the notice board in every train station and the cells of every sheriff's office.

"Not even bounty hunters want you, Marston," he mutters.

Hell, he even checks his mail. But if John Marston is alive, there is no sign to show for it.

He arrives back at camp with nothing more than a bad mood to show for his efforts. His concern should have increased, but instead it has given way to anger for the stupid man.

"Nothin'," he growls to a waiting Hosea. "The boy better be dead."

"Don't say such a thing," Hosea scolds him.

Abigail emerges from her tent, animated with hope.

"I'm sorry, Abigail," he says, softening his tone as much as possible. "There's no sign of him."

She draws in a ragged breath. She nods once, curtly, her way of regaining composure. "Thank you, Arthur. Good night."

"Good night, Abigail."

From then, everyone just accepted that, alive or dead, John wasn't coming back. Abigail, as strong as ever, allowed herself one day of a sort of mourning, then pushed up her sleeves and threw herself back into camp work and mothering Jack. Jack missed his father the most, as might be expected, but soon stopped asking where his Pa was, or whether he was coming back.

Arthur seethed. His anger didn't diminish, only intensified the more he repressed it. Like a gas fills its container, it grew no matter how well he bottled it. Eventually he just threw that bottle to the wayside. He wrote off John Marston for good.

****


	12. Chapter 12

****

Arthur's sat on his cot, sketching in his journal by the light of his lamp. He's just adding the finishing touches to the mountains he rode past today, when there's a commotion in camp.

"It's John!" he hears Javier announce. "John's back!"

"John Marston?" Bill asks.

"John?" Abigail's voice.

He emerges from his tent to see her rushing across the camp. She stops, catches herself, or is caught in her emotion. She clamps a hand to her mouth, then, bursting into tears, shakes her head and runs back to her tent.

It's dark so he can only just make out John's slim figure at the hitching posts. A group is assembling about him, greeting him, asking him questions no doubt. He sees John push his way through them, heading towards camp, gradually illuminated as he comes within reach of the fire's circle of light. He looks haggard, tired, the wear and tear of surviving on his own for the last year.

A whole Goddamn year. 

Now, Arthur's not sure what he's feeling to see John back. Relieved,  maybe. Shocked, a little.

Pissed? Sure as hell.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Arthur hisses as John passes.

John barely glances at him. "Good to see you, too, Morgan."

Arthur seamlessly joins him as he walks, easily keeping pace. "You been gone for a year! A Goddamn year. What, you decide you can just stroll back in and be welcomed back like some, some war hero? We had no idea if  you were alive, dead, captured..."

"Well I'm alive and I'm back now, ain't I?"

Arthur moves in front of him, cuts him off, stops him with a hand on your chest. His voice is low. "You cut and run on us."

"I didn't do nothing of the sort," John says, pushing his hand away. "I just needed- needed some time, that's all."

"Some time?! Oh so little Johnny Marston needed a vacation. All this work was gettin' a bit too _much_ for him!"

"If I didn't know any better I would be beginning to think you cared, Arthur," John says. He's too weary to respond with anything more than his biting sarcasm.

"I don't care about you, I just care about loyalty. And you proved yourself to be pretty damn traitorous."

"I ain't a traitor," John says through gritted teeth, warming up to anger.

"You left your woman and your son-"

"If he is my son," John retorts instinctively.

Arthur pauses. "My God," he says, like he's had an epiphany. "Is that why?! For Christ sakes, Marston, grow up!"

This has absolutely infuriated him, for a reason he knows but doesn't want to name. He goes to walk away, but he isn't finished.  He turns on John again, pointing a finger at him.

"You- you don't know how lucky you are, Marston. A family isn't just somethin' you- throw away!"

Throwing his arm down, he takes a deep breath and a few paces to steady himself.

Eyes averted, John might look embarrassed as he shifts his weight. He changes the subject. He'd rather get yelled at for ditching camp.

"I didn't mean to be gone for so long, but when I tried to come back you'd all moved camp again-"

"And whose fault is that?" Arthur asks with residual anger. "We weren't all gonna sit around and wait for you, Marston."

"Goddamn, Arthur, you're actin' like I sold you out or left you to die."

"Did you? We wouldn't know, you could have been doin' anythin' in the last _year_."

"I'm tired of this." John says blankly, and moves past him.

"Where you goin'?"

"To see Abigail," John calls over his shoulder like it's obvious.

"You think she's gonna want to see you?"

John stops.

"You left her, John, her and little Jack. You left her without a word and you didn't come back."

John stands, visibly tense, hands clenching into fists at his sides, letting Arthur's words bore into his back.

"She don't wanna see you." Arthur's voice is low, but contemptuous and harsh, slow and deliberate, and enough to break the last John's composure.

He turns abruptly on his heel, eyes burning with anger, and storms in the opposite, letting his shoulder slams into Arthur's.

"John!"

He's caught by Dutch as he crosses the camp, and Arthur gets a great satisfaction from imagining the shit John's going to get from him. He goes back to his tent, back to his journal. The shading of the mountains suddenly gets a lot deeper as he presses his pencil harder into the page.

He ran off on that kid. He ran off on the camp. He ran off on his family.

And he strolls in here like nothing is different? Like nothing is wrong? Like can throw banter about as they used to? Like he hasn't broken all their trust? Like they didn't have a code, like they're all going to celebrate his return, like they're going to throw a party like Dutch is going to welcome him back like the prodigal son like it wasn't a _Goddamn year-_

The pencil snaps.

He stares at his page. The mountains are now misshapen and ugly, spiked and jagged and angry. He tears the page out and goes to throw it in the fire.

He's watching the paper curl and burn in the embers when Dutch walks past, resolutely not looking at him. He only sees the look on his face briefly as he strides past the dying fire and its glow illuminates his face for a moment. It's enough to see the mingling anger and relief etched into his features. A feeling Arthur can relate to.

He doesn't see John return. But he is surprised to catch Abigail heading quickly in his direction. She appears in the limited light of the fire and then disappears again, melting into the darkness, and he loses sight of her too. But he damn sure can hear her lay into him. To be fair, he had it coming. Arthur would have laid into him too, unleashed all that anger in one big loud explosion, if it wouldn't betray him and reveal the fact he was just as hurt when John disappeared.

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	13. Chapter 13

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"You can't still be mad at me."

Leaning forward on the horn of his saddle, Arthur makes a point of not responding, not even with a look.

"I know why Hosea sent us together." John says, dangling it like bait.

Arthur ain't bitin'.

"Tryin' to get us to play nice." John eventually finishes.

Eyes trained on the road, it's like John isn't even speaking the way Arthur is able to ignore him. It's a trick he used to pull when they were younger, too, only now it isn't just a way to tease him. It still riles John.

"For Christ's sakes, Morgan," he explodes.  "I've been back three weeks. If I was gonna run off again I would have by now."

"You were with us ten years before you ran off before," Arthur finally snaps. "And if that weren't the case, if it were anyone else, Dutch would have almost certainly shot you on sight."

"Unless it was you," John counters. "He would have thrown a party if you came back."

"I wouldn't leave in the first place."

"I guess that's why you're the favourite," John says, unable to completely curb the bitterness.

"Shut _up_ ," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. It's been an ongoing debate since they picked up John ten years ago, and he's tired of it. Especially now.

John does, for a bit. But then he thinks of another point.

"If y'all didn't want me back, you wouldn't have sent those letters, tellin' me where you were," John continues.

"That was of Abigail's accord. I was quite happy to let you wander the length and breadth of the country looking for and never finding us."

"So I thought you would have been glad to see the back of me," John flips the argument again. "Why you so angry that I left then?"

Arthur just glares at him then turns away. It's a messy knot that he hasn't even begun to unpick himself yet.

"We had a _code_ ," he says, eventually, voice low and intense. "You abandonin' Abigail and Jack, that was bad enough. But even without your lame excuse for fatherhood, you broke that code. God, Marston, we were raised together. Dutch and Hosea saved us, raised us, and this is how you repay them?"

"I know," John says, sincerely. "Hosea and I have talked a lot. I know I don't deserve any of what I got, certainly not Abigail or Jack-"

"Huh," Arthur snorts in derisive agreement.

"And I know that now."

"Better late than never I guess."

John goes to respond, but then he sees the stagecoach they've been waiting for, and he's no longer sure which one of the two of them Arthur was talking about.

Either way, he straightens up and gallops off without John.

****


End file.
